
Rustling underfoot.

Rustling underfoot.

Flowers by streetlight.

In Tyninghame Smiddy.

The light above my restaurant table.

On a cold Autumn evening.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
– Laurence Binyon

Lit up at night.

My neighbour’s gate.

Snuggle up.

When black cats cross your path?